


Fixtures

by risotto



Category: Free!
Genre: Canon Divergent, Coffee Shops, Escapism, Future Fic, M/M, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2081682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risotto/pseuds/risotto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s his oasis, far away from the mounting pressures of a swim team that works him to near-death; far from a university looking to shape him into the corporate zombie he doesn’t want to be. It's his place where once a week, he can hide away from the world, from obligation, from his troubles, and just breathe.</p><p>(Sousuke, Makoto, and a coffee shop.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Noon Chai, low cinnamon

**Author's Note:**

> I always told myself I'd never write a Coffee Shop fic. I also said I'd never write a multi-chapter fic. Then again, I always tell myself I'm not going to do a lot of things, and so here I am.
> 
> Not much to say right now. I hope you'll enjoy. =)

There’s a quaint little coffee shop that insists it’s a tea house in Ebisu called Mintea. It’s on a backstreet halfway between the station and Sousuke's acupuncturist’s office.

Sousuke would have never found the place had it not been for Satoshi, the de facto leader of his class’s (very) small mythology and classic literature study group. For some reason, Satoshi insisted at least one meeting be held there once every week on Tuesdays. Why, Sousuke isn’t sure, but he’s got a suspicion the place’s atmosphere—and cheap brews—have something to do with it.

It's calming and cozy, light-years away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Only soft instrumental music plays. And aside from the occasional whistle of kettles and whir of coffee machines, it's leagues quieter than his university’s library. For starters, he could actually hear himself think.

Sousuke likes it, particularly because no one he knows outside the study group knows about it—not even Rin. It’s his oasis, far away from the mounting pressures of a swim team that works him to near-death; far from a university looking to shape him into the corporate zombie he doesn’t want to be. It's his place where once a week, he can hide away from the world, from obligation, from his troubles, and just breathe.

So it's only natural he's a little resistant to the idea of change.

  


-

  


As luck would have it, he walks by the shop one Wednesday—not the day his group’s supposed to meet—and he sneaks a glimpse in through the window as he passes. He doesn’t expect to see anything he hasn’t already, like the rustic décor, the barista who always dyes her hair all sorts of colors or the other one who shrinks and radiates with shyness.

Everything is as it should be. Everything except for _him_ —the rather tall one, with the broad shoulders and sharp angles and cowlicked brown hair.

Sousuke stops dead in his tracks and stares through the glass. He swears he’s seen this guy before. Seven years ago and over six hundred kilometers away, and not in a city of over thirteen million people. Iwatobi. Simpler and quieter Iwatobi.

He’s a little bigger now—if he's even who he thinks it is—a giant in such a small, cramped place, yet he moves nimbly between the tables and people like a pro. Sousuke watches as he balances a tray on the flat of one hand and pours some brew into a customer’s mug expertly with the other. Then's straightening up and smiling a sun-warm smile that reaches up into his eyes and suddenly, there’s no doubt about it: it’s him.

Makoto Tachibana.

One of the baristas is crouching by the shop’s outdoor chalkboard sign, writing on it in pink bubbly letters to match her hair and, presumably, her personality. “Hello! Welcome to Mintea!” She’s so short, Sousuke almost missed her. And he tells himself it's not because of the familiar face inside.

Sousuke bites his tongue in his mouth, looking between her and Tachibana.

She seems to catch on, and smiles and looks inside the shop as well. Thankfully, Tachibana is long gone, whisked off further into the shop. “Does something catch your eye?”

No, definitely not.

Without giving her an answer, Sousuke leaves, posthaste.

  


-

  


Less than a week later, Satoshi informs the group their meetings are now to be held on Wednesdays instead of Tuesdays.

A minor change that changes everything.

Sousuke considers ditching the next meeting or the group entirely at that point. But an upcoming exam kills that thought, and before he can come up with some kind of excuse to avoid it, Wednesday rolls around and he’s ducking into his favorite corner of Mintea and hanging his jacket to join his group.

No more than five minutes after sitting down, Tachibana shows up to take the group’s order, pen and pad ready. Sousuke stares hard at the open page of his textbook, hoping nothing about what he does or how he looks gives way to who he is, or that at the very least, Tachibana would be too preoccupied with jotting down stuff that he'd miss him entirely.

This is _Sousuke's_ sanctuary, _his_ quiet space, and he can’t very well have disruptions like this and—

“Yamazaki-kun?”

And of course Tachibana recognizes him and has the gall to sound stunned. Fuck.

Shoulders tensing, Sousuke peels his eyes away from the story of Hyacinth he's read dozens of times over and looks up. His gaze meets green and for a brief unnerving moment, he’s exposed and forced to glance away. For his own sake.

“Noon chai, with light cinnamon,” is all he says, his voice rumbly.

A long, quiet moment passes before he hears the scratch of a pen against paper, and an all-too-soft, “I’ll get that right out to you.”

He ignores the disappointment in Tachibana’s voice and focuses on the sounds of his retreating footsteps instead.

It’s quiet at the table as soon as he’s gone, like he was never there to begin with, until Satoshi looks between him and the towering figure at work behind the counter.

“You know him, Yamazaki?”

Sousuke takes a while to respond, but when he does, it’s with a faint, “no, not really.”

It's true.

  


-

  


Activity back at the table returns to its usual level, until Tachibana returns later with their drinks, thanks them for being so patient, and hands them their orders with practiced and careful perfection. He hands Sousuke his drink last, his gaze lingering a lot longer than anyone might deem comfortable.

“Please enjoy.”

Sousuke waits until Tachibana's off to tend to a salary man in the corner before bringing the cup up to his lips. At best, the noon chai has been just above passable here at Mintea. He samples it, lets the flavor swish around in his mouth.

Not bad.

  


-

  


Word doesn't get back to anyone on the team; no one on campus knows. The world still turns. Nothing’s changed.

So it won’t be so bad.

With a deep intake of breath, Sousuke pushes the door and enters the café, making a beeline for his favorite spot in the corner. This time, there’s no study group awaiting him so they can compare notes on Hero and Leander and their place in art history.

The baristas, Tachibana included, all bow to him in greeting and leave him alone, allowing him the much-needed time and space to remove his jacket, sling his bag over the back of his favorite seat and slump down into it, long limbs stretching, without interruption.

Sousuke breathes out, slow and deep. He can handle this.

He turns toward the counter and waves a barista over.

Tachibana takes his order that day: noon chai, light on the cinnamon, and a biscotti. He doesn't ask him why he's there or anything else, really. Just makes him his drink and brings it over and leaves the order receipt down on the table unassuming between Bulfinch's Mythology and a notebook, and leaves him be for the next two hours.

It's not so bad.

  


-

  


The following week, the same thing happens: Sousuke enters, the bell above the door chimes, the baristas greet him—and he wonders, idly, if they’re the only employees this place has—and he proceeds to his corner where he loses himself in either his studies or his thoughts for a very peaceful two hours.

This pattern continues for the next five weeks, uninterrupted.

Since the third week, right around the time Sousuke had glared daggers into the shy barista for drowning his chai with cinnamon, Tachibana became the primary handler of his orders. A win, since his noon chai is by far the best out of the Wednesday crew. Though Sousuke won't ever tell him that.

Because he doesn't speak to him.

This fact barely registers to Sousuke until a month and a half have passed and there’s a change in his beloved routine. It's not earth-shattering, but to someone who swims with the current instead of against it, it pretty much is.

It happens right after Sousuke sits down in his special, designated corner. Tachibana approaches him without heed, a piping-hot cup and saucer of noon chai in his hands and a smile on his face, as warm as it is disarming.

Sousuke freezes then remembers he has to say _something_ , except his throat tightens and he thinks he might be choking on a breath, yet all he can do is dumbly reach for his wallet.

“There’s no need,” Tachibana insists, his head bowing coyly, making his square-framed glasses slide down the bridge of his slender nose. “We’ve set up a tab for you.”

Sousuke's voice finally returns and before he knows what he’s doing, he says, “This is assuming I’m actually going to come back.”

The look on Tachibana’s face is a cross between ashamed and shocked, and just the slightest bit disappointed. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Something in Sousuke's heart jumps. He can’t help the way the right side of his mouth quirks upwards, just barely, on its own. “Just kidding.”

He’s rewarded with the sight of one flustered and blushing Tachibana setting his drink down and sputtering something that sounds like ‘ _thank you very much, please come again’_. He hurries back to work. Not a single drop of the pink drink spilled.

Pleased, Sousuke’s mouth spreads out into a full-blown smile. Or smirk. Whichever it is, it’s his first in weeks. It stays there, or it feels like it stays there, for the better part of three hours—the longest he's remained—until a movement out the corner of his eye distracts him.

Tachibana’s by the door, his apron’s off, and he’s now in a thin brown jacket and waving ‘bye’ to his co-workers. “See you tomorrow,” he calls out to them with a wave.

“Good luck,” one calls back.

Sousuke flicks a glance his way, watching Tachibana through the shop glass as he sadly drops his hand and disappears down the street in the direction of the train station, the smile gone from his eyes.

Good luck?

It’s none of his business and he shouldn’t even think twice about it. But he does wonder just what it is out there that Tachibana’s heading to.

Then there's a twitch at his shoulder, and Sousuke turns briskly away from the window and buries his nose into his book, deciding that Tachibana's vulnerabilities are his and his alone.

To Sousuke, he doesn't exist outside of this shop.


	2. Distractions

Before Sousuke knows it, it’s November.

Winter is around the corner. It’s the season for flushed cheeks, scarves, and thicker coats. In the world of swimming, it’s a false break. While intense physical training is reduced to just a few short laps per week, coaches take advantage of the downtime in their own unique ways. As a result, strength- and psychological-training and performance reviews are squeezed in and for the ill-prepared, they’re just as brutal as six kilometer swims, if not more.

November is also when Satoshi decides that club meetings are cancelled, indefinitely. He claims it’s for the group’s benefit, to better prepare them for the exam season and to free up their time for studying. When the fresh bouquets of flowers stop showing up at Mintea, Sousuke suspects something else.

Oh well. It’s not as if he ever intended to stop coming to the café. The people, the food, the sights and smells— _everything’s_ become a fixture in his weekly routine. Like Rin snapping his goggles, Sousuke’s sojourns to Mintea are a habit.

Heaven to build up, hell to break.

  


-

 

It’s a day like any other in Mintea, which means the noon chai is tasty and hot, the noise is minimal, and Sousuke’s left to his own devices. Mmm. Perfect.

He’s studying, his papers and books spread out over the small wooden table before him. Most of them are pictures and article printouts on specifics of Roman patron gods, old maps of Sparta and Greece, texts on Etruscan myths…

In some kind of admittedly dorky way, he loves it, all of it. It’s easy for him to get lost in the strange works and tales passed down from eons ago, from thousands of miles away, and to forget everything that’s bothering him here and now.

So when there’s a looming shadow darkening the white pages of his book and a gentle warmth surging at his back, Sousuke jumps with a start. Only slightly, his brain insists. He enjoys the feel of it, like a warm salve over aching muscle, and that alarms him.

Sousuke glances up at the source. It’s Tachibana.

He’s bent over slightly, near his shoulder, uncomfortably close, his gaze glued onto the open book on Sousuke’s table, his eyebrows lifted high above the rim of his glasses. “Is that the Artemis Temple?”

It’s only a few moments later, when he feels himself actually blink, that Sousuke realizes he’s been staring.

Tachibana does too, and blushes as he backs away. “Oh, I’m sorry! That was rude of me. I shouldn’t be looking over your shoulder like that. I—”

“It’s the Pantheon in Rome,” Sousuke says coolly. And before he can think to stop himself, he plucks up another book from his pile—this one on Ancient Mediterranean architecture—and flips to the page in question for a better shot of the structure.

“Wow,” Tachibana remarks, impressed. “Must be a nice place to visit.”

It’s more than just nice, Sousuke wants to argue. It’s a two thousand year old work of art that still stands. He can wax poetic about it, spew out little details and trivia till he’s blue in the face.

_Did you know the Reinaissance Painter Raphael is buried there? Did you also know there is an oculus in the center of the dome? And there is a drainage system on the floor directly below it that gathers rainwater?_

Yet, Sousuke can’t bring himself to say any of that. He can only peer down at the book and murmur, “Must be.”

“You mean you’ve never been?”

Sousuke shakes his head. He’s always wanted to.

“Maybe someday you will,” Tachibana says with a smile as he sets down his drink, and Sousuke can’t help but believe him, no matter how foolish the idea sounds.

Tachibana comes back later, at the start of Sousuke’s last hour, with another cup of noon chai.

Sousuke makes a face and instinctively leans back in protest. Two’s pushing it. Three is too much, even for a caffeine chugger like himself.

Tachibana insists. “You yawned a bit ago,” he says, as if that explains everything.

And maybe it does. Did he yawn? It’s not impossible. Translating things and remembering dates and trying not get confused by numerous names ending in – _mus_ and – _ides_ can be tiresome. He’s kind of dizzy from it all, actually.

“And, um, I’m trying to improve my baking but I think I made too many, so, here. On the house.” Tachibana presents him with a cookie. It’s misshapen and a little dark on the edges with a tri-color frosting: red, white, and green, in that order. The flag of Italy, presumably.

Sousuke looks at it like he expects it to bear fangs and strike.

“It’s not that bad, I promise,” Tachibana says around a small laugh, shyly rubbing at his cheek.

Refusing a gift is taboo, he knows as much from all of his mother’s lectures and scolding, but the hopeful, imploring look in Tachibana’s eyes tug at the strings of his heart, and Sousuke’s not sure what to do anymore.

Realistically, he can burn off the calories of at least two of these cookies in less than an hour at the aquatic center or on a treadmill, which nulls the excuse that he’s in training. And unlike Rin, he doesn’t mind the taste of sweets and baked goods.

And he went through the trouble of making them...

With a small grunt, Sousuke concedes. “Sure, fine.” He pauses, tries not to look too hard at Tachibana who’s practically bouncing in place with joy, and tacks on a simple, “thank you.”

Expecting things to be done with that, Sousuke looks down at his book, only to look up again a moment later. Tachibana’s still there, expectant and coy. “…what?”

“Um, I need to know what you think of it so I can go work on the next batch.” He tilts his head, grimacing slightly through his smile. “So…”

Convinced he’s caught in some kind of inescapable trap, Sousuke levels a long and wary look on Tachibana. Then, shrugging inwardly, he takes a small bite of the cookie.

And he stops and chews, biting into the rest of it, savoring every chunk of the cookie before he gives an assessment, well aware that Tachibana is watching his every move and waiting for some kind of reaction like his very life depends on it.

Done, Sousuke dabs at his lips with a napkin, swipes crumbs off his shirt, and says, “it’s fine. If you want, I can take a small bag to go.”

Tachibana beams, absolutely elated, then hurries behind the counter, unaware that Sousuke just lied through his teeth.

The cookie was not fine.

It was delicious.

 

-

 

Riding the Hibiya subway line the next evening seems to rid Sousuke of every lingering positive thought he has, Italy cookies and coffee shops included. It’s crowded. People bump into him. A municipal worker gets him really bad against his shoulder—it flares up with pain and the man doesn’t even apologize. Sousuke shoots him a nasty glare for his efforts.

The acupuncture and temperature therapy haven’t been working as well as they should lately. He’s going to need another shot soon, and maybe even physical therapy or, worse, sur—

“He’s tall. But not like the other one.”

“But he’s still hot!”

“Yukiko, _ssh_! He might hear you.”

Uncomfortably close to his bubble of personal space are a gaggle of school girls squealing and giggling amongst themselves. It’s nothing unusual or worthy of his attention, that is, until he hears the unmistakable click of a phone’s camera and more shushed giggles from the girls.

Sousuke turns, preparing to give Yukiko and her friends more of what he gave the municipal worker. They’re not even looking at him. Curious, he follows their line of vision and sees what’s got them so amused.

It’s almost laughable.

How in the world does he keep finding him?

Tachibana’s there, standing with his hands tucked into the pockets of a dark green winter jacket, face partially covered by a frayed red scarf—no glasses, no apron, his broad shoulders in an undecided state of discomfort and drooping. He’s still despite the shake and lean of the moving train, listening to something through earbuds, completely lost in a world of music deprived giggling admirers and the rhythmic noise of the subway.

Sousuke envies him for that. His own iPod lay forgotten on his lonely nightstand back at his apartment.

He wonders what he’s listening to. Pop? Enka? A snort— _death metal_?

That’s when he comes to realize: he doesn’t know Tachibana at all. He knows Rin, probably better than Rin knows himself. He knows Kisumi Shigino, whether he wants to or not. He _thinks_ he knows—knew?—Haruka Nanase. But he doesn’t know _him_. After nearly three months of weekly encounters, it ought to be a shame.

But, then, thinking about it, that’s not entirely true. He knows some things. He knows Tachibana wears his glasses at work because it looks more professional than it is practical with all the steam there. He knows that he’s right handed but prefers to pour with the left. He also knows that when Tachibana wipes down the surfaces inside Mintea, he hums—never sings—along with the radio’s music and that it’s a decidedly pleasant sound. But Sousuke’s not about to record him or anything…

There’s an announcement for the next stop. Roppongi. Sousuke holds his breath, listening to the screech of brakes on the tracks, watching Tachibana hold onto the overhead handle strap from the corner of his eye, wondering if he’s going to stay or leave.

He doesn’t disembark.

Several passenegers leave, twice as many board, crowding the car, the standees more or less packed in closer together with barely any elbow room between their bodies, and for the first time in his life, Sousuke curses his body’s large size. He sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Yamazaki-kun?”

Tachibana’s spotted him and something sparks to life in his eyes. Not surprise, not relief. Just something raw and in-between that makes something twist, hot and heavy, in Sousuke’s gut.

“…hey.”

Tachibana smiles, almost knowingly, and Sousuke thinks he may be smiling somewhat in return. It’s not like how it was on that first Wednesday when Tachibana spotted him in the center of Mintea and they both stared at each other in stunned, unsure silence. It’s nice.

Another announcement, this one for Kamiyacho, interrupts their muted exchange.

Then the smile disappears from Tachibana’s eyes, just as it did weeks ago, when Sousuke had stayed behind and watched him leave work with a wistful look on his face. Is he headed to that same place now, he wonders.

The train comes to a stop. Sousuke tightens his hold on his bag’s strap and watches, closely, as Tachibana moves to leave. The flap of his messenger bag isn’t properly shut and a manila folder drops out of it to the floor but he doesn’t seem to notice as he steps out onto the station platform.

Sousuke reacts without thinking, swiping up the fallen folder and its contents—some papers with charts and terms, labeled ‘remedial’—and rushes out onto the platform just as the train’s automatic doors slide shut behind him.

It’s stupid. He could just hold onto it, wait until next Wednesday and give it to him then. But no. Rather, he’s practically running up the subway stairs and chasing Tachibana down. All to return a dumb folder. What is even happening to him?

By the time they’re up on street level, Sousuke easily catches up to him. Either he’s gotten a lot faster or Tachibana moves slow. “Tachibana.”

Tachibana turns, a surprised smile gracing his face. “Oh, Yamazaki-kun. Is this your stop too?”

It’s not. Yet for some reason, Sousuke made it that. Curiosity, perhaps. Overinvested concern, most likely. He doesn’t even know—he just hopes once he satisfies his curiosity, this nagging sentiment will fade away and his life and focus will all return to their status quo.

“You dropped this,” he says, handing over the manila folder.

“Oh my goodness!” Face flushed with embarrassment, Tachibana stuffs the papers into his bag. “It’s a good thing you found these! I need them for class—I don’t know what I’d do without them!”

“Class?”

Tachibana stops midway between standing and stepping looking awkward, like a person that realized he’s said too much too late. “Oh,” he murmurs, “I’m attending Jikei.”

Considering the stop, it’s not surprising. The hour is unusual, though.

As if reading his mind, Tachibana smiles timidly. “Evening classes,” he explains, “for grad school. That’s where I’m headed.”

Then that’s where Sousuke’s also headed.

“Hn,” is all Sousuke offers up in acknowledgement when he falls into step besides him. They’re pretty far from the station; it’s pointless to turn back now. Tachibana doesn’t seem to mind.

They walk close enough where Sousuke can see him. Really see him. Tachibana has an attractive profile, more handsome than cute—nose slender and without bumps, jaw strong but not sharp. His normally healthy skin is pale with winter, lips curved into a drowsy smile. Above the neck, Tachibana’s soft and inviting.

Below…

Feeling the skin of his throat grow warm, Sousuke tears his gaze away, directs it on their feet as they walk.

“Is this out of the way for you?” Tachibana asks, like he already knows he and Sousuke have different destinations, but doesn’t presume or ask where. Just like he is about everything. Sousuke likes that. It’s refreshing.

“No,” Sousuke replies. Technically, he’s not lying: his stop is two over from this one. What’s an extra one or two miles of walking?

They walk together some more. Tachibana doesn’t say much, if anything at all. Perhaps he’s used to lengthy bouts of silence—Sousuke recalls Nanase not being much of a conversationalist.

It’s not awkward, this silence. It’s actually kind of nice having to avoid small talk about the weather or how the local sports team of choice fared in the last game. In fact, Sousuke dares to think it’s comfortable and something he can easily get used to. If he wants to.

They turn the corner onto a busy thoroughfare. Ahead, several students are beelining toward a white large building in the center of a complex of smaller, similar-looking ones. They’re all hurrying, eager to be among the first to make it inside. Beside him, Tachibana slows down his pace, but Sousuke says nothing of it.

“Well, this is it. Thank you for returning my worksheets,” Tachibana says as he slows to a stop outside the main entryway, his smile thinner than it usually is. “And thank you for walking me. I appreciate the company.”

Sousuke shrugs, glances at some passing traffic. Nonchalant, or so he wants to believe. “It was on my way.”

“Of course.” Tachibana nods with a grin.

Sousuke shoots him a look. It’s supposed to be menacing, or something like it, but even he can’t stop the spread of his lips into a tiny smile. “Keep better tabs on your things. I can’t follow you around to this neighborhood to return your things, you know.”

Tachibana dimples. “Oh, so you _were_ following me, then. I thought you said this was on your way?”

Unable to help himself, Sousuke’s smile grows into full-fledged one. “You’re going to be late.”

The smarmy look fades from Tachibana’s face. “Oh, you’re right!” He turns and hurries toward the building with the sign posted _School of Medicine_ , throwing a wave. “Have a good night!”

Too late. “Good night.”

  


-

  


The next day during training, the strangest thing happens.

Sousuke’s climbing out of the pool after some sprints and rubbing gingerly at his shoulder with a grimace when one of the timekeepers, Coach Ichinomiya, remarks that not only has he somehow shaved off five full seconds from his average time—during the off-season, when times are expected to suffer—but that he also looks lighter.

Lighter? Sousuke frowns. Either his scale at home is broken or—

“Lighter,” Ichinomiya says, gesturing vaguely towards him with a hand, “airy.” A pause. “Happier.”

Happier?

Later, when he’s at home and icing his sore tendons, Sousuke’s still thinking about Ichinomiya’s words. Happier?

He bites into a delicious, misshapen tri-color cookie.

How absurd.

 

-

  


Any lightness and airiness he feels is gone the next Wednesday when Sousuke wanders through the chiming doors of Mintea. He’s not sure what it is but right away he can tell something’s changed.

His heart flutters in a panic when he hears only two voices greeting him with the customary _Irraishamase!_ When he sits in his spot, his drink comes to him later than it normally does.

But his server isn’t Tachibana. It’s the bubbly short girl with platinum blonde and cropped short today. Suniko is her name, he thinks, and he’s convinced it’s not her real name. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.

“Where is he?” he asks, not bothering to care if he sounds at all demanding.

“Who?”

“…Makoto.” It’s the first time Sousuke’s said his given name in years. It tastes sweet on his tongue. And strange. Too intimate.

Suniko shrugs a little, not even looking up at him as she sets his drink down on the table. A tiny bit of the pink liquid spills over the lip of the cup and she doesn’t seem to notice or care. Sousuke peers down and sees a thick veil of cinnamon floating on the surface of his drink. Mako— _Tachibana_ would never let that happen.

“Oh, he called out today,” Suniko says flippantly, tucking her tray beneath her arm.

That’s it?

Despite Sousuke’s frown of confusion, Suniko doesn’t say any more beyond that, content with letting things linger there, before she’s off to attend to something else in the shop. Sousuke almost considers following and hounding her for details but decides it’s ultimately pointless: it’s not his business why Tachibana called out from work or what he does in his spare time.

It shouldn’t have any bearing on him. Sousuke’s not here to see Tachibana—he’s here for himself, to study and relax, regardless if a certain someone with kind eyes is working or not. He has several important exams coming up. He should focus on studying for those and not on the whereabouts of an employee.

Except, he can’t. He tries at first, in vain. Over fifty practice questions on his worksheet and he can’t concentrate on any of them—only on the picture of the Pantheon, peeking out from the pile of booklets and papers on his table. Flipping it over doesn’t do him any favors because as soon as he settles down to list the Nine Muses and the Four Camenae and their attributes, he’s staring glumly at the workspace behind the counter and not finding the tall, brown-haired and kind-eyed figure he’s grown accustomed to seeing there.

It’s not the same. Without Tachibana’s presence there, Sousuke can’t relax and focus. He curses himself for letting this happen.

Not five minutes later, Sousuke gathers his things and leaves the shop, his drink cold and untouched.

  


-

  


The next time Sousuke’s down at the aquatic center, he swims his laps like an afterthought. His mind is on everything else and he ends up losing his stride on the last ten meters. Coach Ichinomiya stands at the poolside, arms folded, a deep-set frown over his aging features. What he tells Sousuke isn’t a surprise.

His times are the worst they’ve been all season.

  


-

  


Skipping out on visits to his acupuncturist helps kill the temptation to stop by Mintea during the next few days. There’s a tingly burn and stiffness in his shoulder because of it but he’s convinced the pain is minor and worth it by the time Wednesday rolls around.

Sousuke isn’t an optimistic person by nature, and with the way things have been going for him lately, he _shouldn’t_ be—but even he can’t help feeling a slight spring in his step when he walks up to Mintea’s door. The aroma of tea leaves and coffee beans and freshly baked goods teases his nostrils before he can swing it ajar.

The door’s halfway open when he can see plain as day, once again, that Tachibana isn’t working. Only Suniko and the timid one whose name he doesn’t know are inside, handling a flurry of orders from a group of rowdy college freshmen.

He doesn’t bother going in this time.

Something’s happening, and he doesn’t know what it is. It’s not until much later in the night, when Sousuke’s in his bed, alone and staring at his blank ceiling while waiting for his painkillers to kick in, that the realization strikes him.

He misses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting this! I had to change so many things, and then life sort of happened...


	3. Concern (or something like it)

The following week is more miserable than the last.

If not for obligations like classes and team meetings and doctor visits occupying his time, Sousuke’s sure he would have spent the entire seven days holed up in his apartment, shut off from all human contact.

For better or for worse, Rin makes sure that does not happen.

` **Rin**`  
`You’re awfully quiet – more than usual.`

As always, Sousuke has an internet chat window open for Rin. Their chats are random with barely any continuity, open for the nights when they’re too busy or tired for video or phone calls. Seeing the pop-up window in the lower corner of his screen is often the highlight of Sousuke’s evenings. Tonight, he regrets even logging on.

` **Sousuke**`  
`Didn’t even notice.`

` **Rin**`  
` Of course you didn’t. How are you?`

Miserable and wretched.

` **Sousuke**`  
` Just tired.`

` **Rin**`  
` Want me to send you some Jaffas?`

Do they make them noon chai flavored?

` **Sousuke**`  
` No thanks. I’m training.`

` **Rin**`  
`You sure? Cos word is, your times suck.`

Sousuke growls. That damn Coach Ichinomiya.

` **Sousuke**`  
`It’s the off-season.`

` **Rin**`  
`Right. Your times are the worse they’ve ever been, Sousuke.`

` **Sousuke**`  
` Checking up on me behind my back?`

` **Rin**`  
`Someone has to. Is there something going on?`

` **Sousuke**`  
`No. I’m just tired.`

` **Rin**`  
`It’s not your shoulder again, is it?`

He wishes it was. At least then he’d have something to blame this funk on. But just his luck, Coach Ichinomiya cancelled swimming for the next few weeks to allow his athletes more time and energy for their exams and the holiday break. Sousuke’s thankful for it—the acupuncture therapy was starting to plateau.

` **Sousuke**`  
`I said I was fine. It’s just stress.`

Stress doesn’t begin to describe it.

There’s an unread e-mail from his father in his inbox. He doesn’t need to read it know the gist of it: a not so subtle hint at a new management position or something at his business and a crack at his son’s interest in _“useless things made up by a bunch of Greeks who didn’t know any better.”_

With an exasperated sigh, he quickly drags it into the archive folder to join all the others.

` **Rin**`  
`You said that before, too.`

` **Sousuke**`  
` Rin - is there a reason for all this?`

` **Rin** `  
`It’s called concern, Sousuke.`

_`Rin Matsuoka has logged out.`_

Concern, huh.

 

\--

 

It’s been almost a month since Sousuke’s been to Mintea.

He’s passed by twice, remained across the street from it both times; even then, from where he stood, he was able to see they finally fixed the busted little bell over the door—the one that stuttered a chime whenever it swung open. The same sandwich board stood outside, advertising their latest specials in seasonal white, green, and red chalk.

Something warm and sweet blossoms in Sousuke’s chest whenever he so much as thinks about the cafe. He reasons it’s likely due to the all-too-human desire to get out of the cold and into someplace warm and welcoming, and nothing more.

It has nothing to do with a certain charming employee. With that in mind, he pushes forward and approaches Mintea.

It’s on a Wednesday, of all days, and surprise, surprise—Tachibana’s standing right outside the front door. He’s unaware of Sousuke’s presence, too busy handing out pocket-tissue ads to indifferent pedestrians. Tachibana’s in a faded wool sweater with his work apron layered over it; it looks thick, but not enough to fend off much of the cold because the tip of his nose is very red and Sousuke can _see_ his breath from yards away.

Just as Sousuke thinks to turn on his heel and increase the distance between them even more, Tachibana spots him and waves, smiling wildly as he calls out, “Ah, Yamazaki-kun!”

Damn.

“Long time no see,” Tachibana greets. He smiles and his cheeks become flushed and glowy from what Sousuke insists is the cold and nothing else. “And just in time, too. We’re having a promotion!”

Tachibana hands him one of the tissue packets. Inside is a colorful little coupon with tiny drawings of holiday-themed baked goods along the border—impressive and maybe even cute, but ultimately nothing that would implore Sousuke to enter the shop.

Nothing implores him, actually, until Tachibana peers up at him through the mist-wet fringe of his hair and smiles, not quite demurely, but still inviting. “Coming in?”

Sousuke shouldn’t. He should just pay his tab and go about the rest of his day—the rest of his _life_ —and forget this place and this person ever existed. But his will crumbles when Tachibana nudges the door behind him and it swings open with a repaired but still familiar bell chime.

With a soft groan, Sousuke enters.

The inside of the café reeks of peppermint and nutmeg. Not exactly his favorite scents, but for a moment, Sousuke’s breathing it all in, greedily, like it’s air and he’s been stuck under deep water for the past three weeks.

In a way, he has.

The two girls that work with Tachibana are behind the counter. The short one waves at Sousuke like an old friend. “Look who it is,” she chirps, grinning and nudging the demure one beside her with her elbow.

Sousuke’s not sure what his expression looks like, but if the demure one can manage to make eye contact with him and nod in greeting without ducking behind the counter in fright, then it can’t be that bad.

Wait a minute. Did they _miss_ him?

Sousuke thinks on this as he sits down at his usual spot (and tries to ignore how comfortable the back of the chair feels against his spine). He _hopes_ they didn’t miss him. The last thing he needs is another attachment to this place.

Tachibana brings him his drink. Pale pink, piping hot, and lacking cinnamon. Perfect. Sousuke’s sighs loud in long-awaited satisfaction, bringing the mug up to his lips for a sip.

“It’s getting cold out there, isn’t it?” Tachibana gestures out the shop window at nothing in particular. He’s smiling, but it’s weak, almost lifeless, and he seems paler, which makes all sorts of sense due to the depressing weather outside. But the more Sousuke thinks on it, the harder it is for him to focus on anything else.

 _It’s called concern, Sousuke_ .

With Rin’s words echoing in his mind, Sousuke inhales then forces himself to look up at Tachibana. “Where were you?”

It comes out a lot more insistent than it ought to be, and Tachibana flinches, looking as if Sousuke had thrown his drink over him. “I’m…sorry.”

Weeks without word or notice and that’s all he has to say?

Perhaps sensing the frustration coiling tight within Sousuke body, Tachibana looks around self-consciously to make sure no one’s overheard them. “I’m…sorry, I was—there were _things_.” He’s kind enough not to raise his voice, at least. “I…can’t talk about it here.”

Of all the things he might have expected Tachibana to say, an invitation to a discussion ranks somewhere along the last. Must be serious.

Just as Sousuke is about to insist it’s fine where they are, he realizes it’s not. The after-work crowd is starting to trickle in and mix with the college students, all lured in by the promise of hot drinks and a cozy atmosphere. Too cozy, maybe. Anything they say can be on social media within seconds.

Reluctantly, Sousuke agrees **.**

 

**\--**

 

The only privacy they can find for themselves is inside one of the café’s two restrooms. It’s immaculate and Tachibana’s probably the only one who makes use of it. Sousuke never knew it existed.

It’s so cramped in the room, barely enough for two men of their size, but they make it work, somehow, without bumping into each other; Tachibana’s against one wall while Sousuke leans against the other, his arms loosely folded.

“So.”

Right away, Tachibana starts off with the head bowing and apologetic sputtering. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I don’t want to bring you down with my problems…”

It’s almost infuriating how self-effacing Tachibana seems, even when he has every right to be a little selfish every now and again.

Sousuke sighs. “I asked, remember?” he points out. “So don’t worry about it.”

“You’ll probably think it’s stupid…”

“Maybe,” Sousuke says with a light shrug and Tachibana looks a little surprised by his candid reply, so he continues, “but you won’t know unless you say something, right?”

Tachibana peers down at his shoes, as if considering Sousuke’s words several times over. “True,” he murmurs, “but...”

Sousuke unfolds his arms, relaxing, then crosses them casually behind his head. “If you don’t want to, you’re not obligated to tell me—”

“I’m failing,” Tachibana blurts. After the silent moment Sousuke’s shock offers him, he adds, “That night you saw me on the train? I was heading towards a remedial class.”

That’s not unexpected. Sousuke faintly recalls the manila folder labeled as such but mostly, he remembers the forlorn expression on Tachibana’s face when they approached the Jikei campus that night. It’s not at all an unfamiliar sight among the university crowd.

“I’m taking several classes actually,” he sighs, broad shoulders sagging, “so I had to cut some hours here just so I can catch up with the course work. That’s why…”

That’s why he wasn’t there these past few weeks. Sousuke’s not sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, a part of him feels he ought to chew Tachibana out for inadvertently making these past few weeks hell for him; but the logical, _smarter_ part of his brain figures he should stop being a brat and be thankful Tachibana’s even willing to explain his absence.

Biting his tongue, Sousuke gestures for Tachibana to go on.

“Anyway,” Tachibana shakes his head, “there’s also a major exam coming up that I haven’t had time to study for. And I don’t think the classes are helping and it’s just…it’s been a mess with school.”

It’s a wonder Tachibana’s even standing after all that. He looks positively drained. “And that’s that.” A pause, then he chuckles weakly again. “Told you it’s stupid…”

 _Far from it_ , Sousuke’s mind screams. He thinks back to his father’s emails and Rin’s messages, and his jaw clenches almost as tight as his fist. “It’s not,” he argues. “It’s your _future_. How can that be stupid?”

Tachibana shifts, all nerves and uneasiness. “That is putting it harshly, isn’t it? I guess pointless might be a better word.”

It’s not, and Sousuke hopes the glare he throws his way conveys as much. “And what’s that?” he challenges him.

“What’s what?”

“This so-called pointless thing you’re stressing out over. What is it for?”

Tachibana appears stunned for a moment, caught off-guard from such a simple yet meaningful question. His green eyes widen behind his glasses before he quickly looks back down at his feet, embarrassed. “Medical school,” he mumbles.

Figures as much. Practicing medicine, nursing, caring for others—it seems like the perfect type of work for someone like Tachibana, and by all odds not pointless. But what Sousuke thinks doesn’t matter. “Is that what you want to do?”

Awkward as it sounds, it’s the only way he can word himself.

He replays the words over in his head and almost chokes once he realizes how that must sound. He didn’t want to sound that concerned or overinvested. He barely knows Tachibana.

He wants to smack himself straight across the forehead. This is why he doesn’t talk to people that aren’t named Matsuoka.

Tachibana chews on his lower lip then half-shrugs. “I guess, because it sounds like the right thing to do. I used to work part-time in a physical therapist’s office and nearly everyone that came by assumed I was the doctor…”

“But is that what you really want? To be the doctor?”

Tachibana doesn’t say anything. No matter. He doesn’t need to—his body language speaks plenty.

He doesn’t want to be the doctor, no matter how perfect he might be for the job.

“I don’t know what I want to be,” Tachibana admits, softly. “When I was little, I wanted to be a fireman. And towards the end of high school, I wanted to be a swimming coach for children. And yeah, being a doctor seems nice, too. I still want to be all those things, but…”

“Maybe you ought to figure out what you really want, first.” Sousuke leans his head back, gazing up at the fluorescent light fixtures above them. One of them has dimmed considerably compared to the one beside it, giving the room a sort of ambient glow. “Then everything will be clear and less stressful, I think.”

“It sounds so simple when you put it like that,” Tachibana chuckles, offering up a self-effacing smile. “Must’ve been easy for you, huh?”

“Eh?”

“To figure it out?” Tachibana tilts his head.

Without thinking, Sousuke rolls his eyes and mutters, “yeah, right.”

The worried glance Tachibana gives him right afterwards makes him regret it. “So you mean…?”

Sousuke shakes his head.

There’s a rustle of clothing and it takes Sousuke a moment to realize it’s Tachibana himself—he’s turned over onto his side, his cheek against the wall, facing Sousuke’s profile. “What do you want to do, Yamazaki-kun?”

No one had ever asked Sousuke that. Truly. The guidance counselor at Samezuka asked, so did his father, because they're required to. Rin had asked, too, but Sousuke never responded. Back then, he presumed they’d swim together till they were old and gray and covered in gold medals.

Then his shoulder gave out and things changed. Time went on and he got older and certain wounds never healed in the ways they’re supposed to. Reality sank in shortly thereafter and it became as clear as the water they love that he’ll never swim with Rin, not in the way he always wanted.

Now, he doesn’t know what he wants to do in life, either.

What made him think he had the right to give Tachibana any advice?

“Nevermind,” Tachibana says before Sousuke can open his mouth, “forget I asked such a personal question. Sorry.” He pushes off the wall, straightens out his apron. “I should head back inside. Suniko has to leave soon and Hitomi can’t fend off the salarymen by herself.”

“Ah. Yeah, sure,” is all Sousuke can say, still with his back to the wall, still at a loss for words.

On his way out, Tachibana pauses by the door. “Yamazaki-kun?”

“Mm?”

“If I said I didn’t know what I wanted to do after all, do you think I’m stupid for wanting to push on anyway?” he asks softly.

“…never.”

Brave, Sousuke thinks. Not stupid.

Tachibana dimples. “Thank you, Yamazaki-kun.”

The door held open for him, Sousuke stops just before it and tries to seem cool when he waves his hand dismissively. “Call me, Sousuke. We’ve known each other for years.”

Technically. There are still things about Tachibana he doesn’t know. His birthday. His favorite restaurant. Which version of Kamen Rider is his favorite. Then Sousuke wonders why he even cares at all.

It’s not concern, no. Curiosity, maybe, or a little more than that.

“Then you can call me Makoto,” he chirps with one of those smiles of his, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes the color rush to his cheeks. “I enjoyed this. I haven’t had a talk like this…in a very long time.”

“You mean you make a habit of having talks in this bathroom?”

Sousuke smirks and Makoto laughs and together, they walk back out into the café.

 

\--

 

` **Sousuke**`  
`Thank you for your concern, Rin.`

` **Rin**`  
` Holy shit! Satan must be having a snowball fight! :)`

Why he bothers, Sousuke will never know.

 

\--

 

The next week finds Sousuke back in Mintea. His workload hasn’t changed—if anything, it’s gotten bigger now that it’s getting closer to his exams—but he feels lighter, less burdened somehow, and more determined to see it through.

His pen is on fire; he gets through all of his study worksheets in record time and is more than halfway through listing every Etruscan deity and figure alongside their Roman counterpart by the time he looks up and realizes he’s the only patron left within the cafe.

Makoto’s sweeping up the floors and lifting the chairs onto the unused tables while Suniko and Hitomi wipe down the equipment and countertops. It’s been an unusually slow and quiet day.

He missed this.

Then Makoto approaches his table, wringing his hands and nibbling on his lower lip. The guy is the poster child for unhidden emotions. “Yama—I mean, Sousuke?”

“Mm?”

“I just came by to tell you that the shop will be closed next Wednesday.” Although the tone of his voice is as sweet and modest as ever, there’s an underlying dread lingering there that has Sousuke subconsciously digging his heels into the floor.

“Why?” he asks outright, startling both Makoto and himself with his candor.

Makoto’s the first to recover. He rubs at his cheek—a nervous little habit of his Sousuke’s noticed from time to time. “Hitomi and Suniko are going to start their move next Monday and I agreed to help them. It's going to take a couple of days, and with no one available to cover here…”

No, no, _no_. Just when things were finally getting back into that peaceful routine Sousuke coveted so much. He knows he shouldn’t project so much onto a particular day, but next Wednesday is the final calm before a storm of exams and training schedule changes makes landfall. He _needs_ next Wednesday.

But before he can think to retort and ask why again, Makoto proceeds, “and with everyone’s budget so tight, they won’t hire an expensive moving company.”

Makoto must’ve read his mind. Rin mumbled something about him being able to do that during their last year of high school. Back then, Sousuke brushed it off as nonsense. Now he’s willing to give the possibility of telepathy the benefit of a doubt.

“I’ll help,” Sousuke offers suddenly. The more he thinks on it, the more resolute he is. He’s finally got stability back in his life, and he’s willing to do whatever’s necessary to make sure he keeps it.

Makoto meanwhile looks like Sousuke just spoke to him in Greek. “What?”

“I said I’ll help with the move.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Makoto punctuates each ‘no’ with a firm shake of his head. “I can’t ask that of you, we’ll—”

“You didn’t ask, I’m offering,” Sousuke insists with a presumably nonchalant gesture, “and no offense, but if it’s just going to be the three of you, you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

“No,” Makoto argues.

“I have nothing better to do. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to us, we can’t—”

Sousuke’s lip starts to curl upward into a snarl, all on its own. Who knew Makoto was so stubborn? “You said so yourself,” he points out, “budget’s tight and so is time. Can _you_ really afford to take more time off work?”

Sousuke doesn’t particularly like throwing in the kitchen sink during disagreements—it’s childish and reminds him of Rin when they were little but whatever helps, helps.

That childishness pays off because eventually, Makoto relents with a sigh. “Fine,” he pulls his phone out from the pocket in his apron, “what’s your phone number?”

Sousuke bites back a grin.

Two birds, one stone.

 

\--

 

Suniko and Hitomi’s apartment is in Shimokitazawa, not very far from where Sousuke lives. They all meet at Mintea and journey there together in a rickety truck borrowed from one of their uncles.

The initial plan was to move all the smaller pieces and boxes in first, with the big, bulky things like the dresser and entertainment center last. However, Suniko and Hitomi have made making smaller boxes heavier than the bigger ones into a veritable artform. Between them, there’s at least a half-ton of cosmetics and beauty supplies—things Sousuke never expected to be so damn _heavy_.

He’s on what feels like his hundredth trip up the stairs when he grumbles, aloud and to himself, “Just how many boxes of this stuff do they actually need?”

From the kitchen comes Suniko’s voice, loud and authoritative: what’s in those boxes is not just _stuff_ —they’re _kits_ for cosmetology school. “That’s where Hito-chan and I met,” she adds brightly, proudly.

“Whatever.” Sousuke rolls his eyes and looks at the big box labeled ‘HAIR COLOR’ in his arms. “So where do you want this box of _kits_ to go?”

Makoto appears behind him in the genkan, fresh from clambering up the stairs with yet another of those hellish boxes. It's labeled ‘EXTENSIONS.’ “I think they want these in the bedroom.”

“Which bedroom?”

Makoto goes beet red at that, eyes flicking furtively toward a closed door down the hall then back to Sousuke, his gaze half-knowing, half-imploring. “There’s…um, only _one_ bedroom,” he murmurs.

Sousuke shrugs. “And?”

Makoto looks down the hall again and this time, Sousuke follows the path of his gaze more closely. It’s the bathroom, where Hitomi’s hard at work with cleaning and putting away toiletries.

Sousuke prides himself on being able to figure things out sooner than the average person. As a kid, he even fancied the idea of becoming Rin’s police detective partner because of his ability to catch on to little and often missed hints. That he can’t even pick up on what Makoto’s implying makes him glad he didn’t blindly jet off to the police academy after high school because he’s so stumped right now, it’s embarrassing.

Makoto looks between the bathroom where Hitomi is and the kitchen where Suniko is. Then it hits Sousuke like a ton of bricks.

Oh.

A tiny grin tugs at the corner of Sousuke’s mouth. He hides it by ducking his head and moving toward the bedroom before it can bloom out in the open.

Meekly, Makoto approaches and asks, “is that okay?”

“Sure,” Sousuke says, “I don’t mind it one bit.”

And it’s the truth.

Sousuke’s not one hundred percent sure, but he thinks he may have heard Makoto sigh in relief.

\--

When they break for lunch a couple hours later, the majority of the furniture and the entire kitchen have been brought in. They have just the living room and the rest of the bedroom left and once they do, they’ll be finished. And just as well, because Sousuke never wants to see another box of kits or anything labeled Shiseido or SANA again for the rest of his life.

There’s a box of things Suniko and Hitomi decided they no longer want sitting in the middle of the unfinished living room. _Junk, but not stuff,_ Suniko had said, right before they whisked themselves off to hand out gifts to her new neighbors, leaving Sousuke and Makoto behind to eat and rest their sore bodies.

At this, Makoto laughs quietly, prompting Sousuke to sneer at him. Hauling those boxes up the stairs killed his back.

Makoto shakes his head with another soft laugh. “Not laughing at you. It’s just...when I was a third-year in high school, I took a brief job with a delivery and moving company. During every move, people would realize they already have everything they need and would just throw things out or give away things without thinking, just to save space. It just reminded me of that.”

“One man’s trash.” Sousuke shrugs, admiring his own ‘trash’—an A3 size framed poster of Draper’s _The Lament for Icarus_. Hitomi planned to toss it, thinking it would clash with the Vargas Girls pictures she and Suniko are already lining their walls with. On a whim, she instead offered it to Sousuke. How she knew he’d like it, he’ll probably never know, but he’s glad all the same—he has a special fondness for the piece, having seen it in several of his books already. It’ll look good somewhere on the bare, bleak walls of his bedroom.

“It’s beautiful,” Makoto remarks and it takes Sousuke a moment to realize he’s talking about the painting, “is that an angel?”

Sousuke rubs his fingers fondly over the painting, as if stroking the plumage of the subject’s outstretched wings. “It’s Icarus, from the myth. The women are nymphs mourning him.”

Makoto tilts his head and squints, inspecting the picture with a better eye. “Oh, isn’t he the one that made some wings but then they melted?”

“Right.” Sousuke holds the picture up into the sunlight pouring into the room for a better look at its warm, bronzy colors. “Icarus symbolizes the highly-ambitious type of person that wants to live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse.”

Makoto wrinkles his nose. “Sounds kind of morbid. I’m not sure that’s a philosophy I’d subscribe to…”

Sousuke sort of did, at one point in his life. But like Icarus, he flew too close to his own sun and paid the price for his reckless ambition. “Few people would,” he murmurs after a short while, setting the painting up against the wall.

Makoto looks fondly at him, the kindness of his smile like a salve over Sousuke’s raw unease. “You like mythology a lot, don’t you? I notice you’re always reading and studying it in the shop…”

As if suddenly self-aware, Sousuke freezes. Sharing his time, letting others into his small bubble of personal space, making small and dry jokes with someone other than Rin…

“It’s just for class,” he mutters, his words clipped short.

Some moments later, after the sting of Sousuke’s words fades into awkward silence, Makoto is the first to move, standing and offering to help Sousuke up to his feet. It’s done with such warmth and familiarity that Sousuke doesn’t react right away—he stays there, staring dumbfounded at Makoto’s outstretched hand.

“Ready to go back to work?” Makoto asks, a tender and helpful lilt in his voice. He’s standing so close, Sousuke can feel the heat radiating off his body.

Out of the blue, he’s reminded of their time spent in the cramped back room at Mintea, when he saw Makoto and his subtleties up close. Throat going tight with tension, Sousuke puts his hand within Makoto’s—which is hot and strong—and stands with his help.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

Something’s definitely starting to feel off about all of this.

 

\--

 

Moving heavy furniture and boxes for the better part of a day didn’t do Sousuke any favors. His shoulder throbs but he suppresses it with double doses of store-brought painkillers and Salonpas. For the next seven days, the pain lingers somewhere between a dull ache and a sharp yet still tolerable bite.

It’s with a low moan of pain, then, that Sousuke carefully slides into his seat the next Wednesday. The stiffness in his movements make it uncomfortable but once he’s settled in, it doesn’t matter. The world shrinks to just this place. It’s perfect.

Pleased, he sinks into his studies, and as he makes notes on his margins and charts in his notebook, he’s literally able to feel the stress melting off of him by the minute. For the first time in a long time, things are looking up.

Quietly, Makoto provides him with saucer of noon chai and a small plate of ugly cookies, whispering, “good luck,” then scurries off to attend to other duties before Sousuke can tease him about his baking.

It’s not crowded today, so Makoto’s time is divvied between his work and helping Suniko spruce up the cafe with wintery decorations, most of it Christmas-themed. Deep greens and bold reds, speckles of white lights and velvet ribbons... If Sousuke was the sort of person to put value into holidays, he might appreciate their efforts a bit more.

But it does give him the rare chance to watch Makoto working in a different light. He’s used to him as this gentle and careful giant with the way he handles porcelain mugs and food trays; to see him tear open stubborn cardboard boxes with barehanded ease and lug them from one end of the café to the other is something else altogether. Very distracting, too.

Then it happens.

Makoto’s passing by Sousuke’s table when he stumbles—a simple loss of balance from which he recovers rather quickly.

The same can’t be said about the box he’s carrying, though.

Without thinking, Sousuke’s arms reach out to catch it and, much to their immediate relief, he succeeds, and without a single trace of damage to the box or its contents.

His victory is minor and short-lived, however. Something wrenches in his right shoulder and it feels like it’s being torn open and split in half. It’s almost serene, incongruent how slow the muted world moves around him when it happens. The box slipping from his fingertips, the fake candy-canes and garlands spilling out from inside onto the floor, the expression on Makoto’s face shifting from shock to sheer horror…

Sousuke can’t say it’s a swift, unexpected outcome. It was only a matter of time before all his missed appointments, swimming, and heavy lifting caught up with him.

The moment ends once Sousuke collapses to his knees on the floor and the numbness of surprise fades and he can hear himself scream at the sharp stab of pain in his shoulder.

Not again…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, hasn't it?
> 
> A lot of things happened, canonically, and outside of canon (but mostly it's the former), so I had to rewrite and plan and--in some cases--start over from scratch, which when combined with all sorts of other factors like _life_ , makes for horrific delays. I don't recommend writing so early within a show's season, btw.
> 
> Anyway! Because of how things ended up in Free! ES, it's safe to say this is AU now. Or canon-divergent, as it was intended in the beginning anyway. But, you know, semantics. Feel free to yell or ask questions either here, on Tumblr, or on Twitter.


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